


Perfect Strangers

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Flirting, Love Hotels, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Hayato didn’t turn to watch the other come through the door, didn’t glance back to take stock of another customer about which he doesn’t care in the least, but with his end of the counter almost entirely isolated it’s impossible to miss the lanky figure who pauses a few seats down from Hayato, as if he’s considering occupying one of the chairs a few feet away." Hayato turns around a bad night with a willing accomplice.





	1. Establish

Hayato isn’t having a particularly good night.

He came out looking for a drink, or perhaps several, a whole row of cups that he can work through one after another before retiring to some cheap hotel room and passing out for the span of the night that remains. His day hasn’t been particularly inspired, and he’s not looking to find any kind of insight from the combined sushi restaurant and bar at which he has found himself. All he really wants to do is take his bottle of sake, and retire to the worst-lit seat he can find for himself, and continue drinking until he is too thoroughly sunk in alcohol to feel the crushing disillusionment of life that weighs down against his shoulders.

He’s obtained the sake, at least, and laid claim to the chair as well, far off at the distant corner of the countertop where he’s out of easy hearing of the chef sliding a blindingly sharp knife through the sushi roll laid out on the workspace in front of him. Hayato doesn’t feel the loss. He’s not particularly interested in dinner, and less in the sushi that sometimes seems to be everything he can find since he arrived in Japan, and after watching the chef produce a trio of rolls to satisfy the rest of the waiting patrons Hayato turns himself to the cup of clear liquid before him as a more interesting point on which to fix his attention than the steady motion of the figure on the far side of the counter.

He sees the other approach. Hayato didn’t turn to watch him come through the door, didn’t glance back to take stock of another customer about which he doesn’t care in the least, but with his end of the counter almost entirely isolated it’s impossible to miss the lanky figure who pauses a few seats down from Hayato, as if he’s considering occupying one of the chairs a few feet away. Hayato keeps his head turned down, fixes a scowl at his lips and his gaze on his cup with a clear indication of rejection for a question that hasn’t yet been asked, and when he brings his drink to his mouth it is with enough force to convey his disinterest to anyone who isn’t a complete idiot. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other duck his head and turn to step back from the bar, and Hayato lowers his cup to the counter in front of himself, darkly satisfied with his efforts. He reaches for the bottle and tips it to pour himself a refill.

“Hey there.”

The voice is bright, clear and chipper in utter disregard to the dimmed lighting of the space around them and especially to the aggressive disinterest in Hayato’s shoulders. Hayato grimaces at his cup without making any attempt to hide his scowl, and he keeps the tension in his face as he cants his head fractionally to the side so he can cut an unwelcoming gaze at the man standing alongside him.

He’s taller than he first looked, at a somewhat greater distance than the immediately-adjacent chair that he has now claimed for himself. Hayato has to lift his chin to meet the other’s gaze, and when he reaches it he finds the attention waiting for him as comfortably friendly as his voice, in spite of all Hayato’s efforts to express disinterest. Hayato fixes the force of his own glare on that wide-eyed bright and sustains his frown as he brings the cup in his hand to his lips.

The other remains utterly unperturbed. If anything his smile goes wider, his eyes sparkle warmer. “You look a little lonely,” he says. “Mind if I sit with you?” He’s not waiting for an answer before swinging himself into the chair closest to Hayato’s own; Hayato pulls his cup away to hiss a “Yes,” but the other is already perched next to him and this refusal is met with a bright bubble of laughter, as if Hayato is fluttering his lashes into flirtatious teasing instead of grating the word past his throat.

“You must be new here,” the other says. “I come by most nights but I’ve never seen you around before.” He leans against the brace of his elbow at the countertop so his whole body is turned to open towards Hayato as if he’s a flower angling towards the sun. “Are you a tourist?”

Hayato grunts an incoherent sound. “I’m not going to be coming back.”

“Aww,” the other says. “So you’re just here for the one night?” He turns away from Hayato to tip himself forward over both elbows as his gaze slides away to drift over the display shelves on the far side of the counter. Without an audience Hayato can let his own glare soften fractionally, at least enough to take disinterested stock of the straight line of the other’s nose, and the set of his jaw, and the tousled dark of his hair. There’s a faint scar running along his chin, years old so it’s faded almost out of seeing; it’s only the sun-dark tan of his skin that throws the white line into contrast enough that it’s visible at all. “Seems like a shame to spend a night out alone.”

“Maybe I want to spend it alone,” Hayato says, adding force to the words in case that will let them carry past the other’s apparently unassailable disregard.

Another spill of that laughter says he has failed, again. “You can’t do that,” he declares, as if Hayato were asking for his opinion instead of stating his own. “If you’re visiting a new city it’s always more fun to get to know the locals.”

Hayato snorts. “Which I suppose you are?”

The other looks back to beam acknowledgment of this question. Hayato turns away to reach for his bottle of sake again. It’s almost empty, he nearly has to upend it over his cup to get anything like a full pour. While he’s frowning at the bottle the other takes a breath to answer the mostly-rhetorical question with total sincerity. “I am. I grew up in this area of town. Never went anywhere else until I was in middle school.” He shifts against the counter to lean in towards Hayato with something almost conspiratorial in the angle of his shoulders. “What about you?”

“Do I look Japanese to you?” Hayato asks. The words have bite enough to merit a flinch but the other just laughs as if Hayato has made a joke. Hayato rolls his eyes and sips at the edge of his cup. “I was travelling through Europe by the time I was ten years old.”

“Europe is nice,” the other says. “What brings you to Japan?”

“Tourism,” Hayato says, heavy with sarcasm, and gets another laugh in answer.

“I could show you around,” he offers. “If you wanted to see the sights.”

“What sights?” Hayato asks. “The oden stall down the street? This isn’t exactly a cosmopolitan city center.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t things to do to have fun.” The other tips his head to catch the eye of the sushi chef. Hayato watches him lift a hand to gesture for another bottle of sake and doesn’t voice a protest, just lifts his cup to his mouth to swallow back what remains in a long pull. The chef finishes slicing the roll before him before setting the knife aside so he can go in search of the ordered bottle, and Hayato’s unwanted companion turns back to beam at him. “You just have to know where to look.”

Hayato drags his gaze over the other, taking in the whole lean height of his body where he’s slouched forward to comfort over the stool. “And you’re offering your services?”

The other offers Hayato a smile that is a little slower and warmer than it strictly speaking needs to be. “Guess I am.”

The chef is returning; he nods to Hayato and smiles at the figure tilting in next to him. “You’re not making too much of a nuisance of yourself, are you Takeshi?”

“Course not,” Takeshi beams, and reaches to take the bottle of sake and the second cup offered with it. “Thank you.” The chef dips his head and draws away to return to the waiting customers at the other side of the bar. Takeshi turns to offer the bottle for Hayato’s frowning attention. “More?”

“I’m not going to argue.” Takeshi reaches to pour a refill as Hayato’s attention touches at the shadow of his lashes and the line of the other’s throat down to the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt. It’s tucked into the waistband of his slacks, at least, even if the lack of tie is preventing any excess of dignity; Hayato’s focus traces the crease of the fabric down the length of the other’s legs. He’s tall on his feet, with inches enough to set Hayato’s jaw on self-consciousness if they were standing side-by-side. The thought just adds illumination to Hayato’s imagination, as it flickers to life with a suggestion to cast the lean length of the other’s body into shadow beneath his own, to claim a position of unequivocal dominance over those bright eyes and that soft mouth.

Takeshi leans back from refilling Hayato’s cup and moves to pour into his own, and Hayato reaches for his cup and brings it to his lips with a little more of a flourish than the motion strictly requires. He’s already taken a sip by the time Takeshi lifts his to offer “_Kanpai_,” with another of those beaming smiles, but Hayato humors him all the same, and follows up the toast with lingering attention to the length of the other’s throat working on the swallow he takes from the edge of his cup.

“So,” Takeshi says as he emerges from the edge of his cup, pink-cheeked and damp-mouthed and glowing with happiness that he turns on Hayato like a sunbeam. “What do you say? Want me to show you the sights?”

Hayato grimaces. “Not much time left for sightseeing tonight,” he says. “It must be almost midnight, by now.”

“Ah,” Takeshi says, sounding more expectant than disappointed. “Do you need to get some rest?”

Hayato jerks his head into a negation as he sips at his sake. “I don’t get much sleep,” he says, as an efficient means of conveying his habitual insomnia to Takeshi’s bright eyes and intent focus. He reaches out to set his cup down at the edge of the counter, bringing it down with decisive action so it _ click_s at the surface. “But I think I’ve about run through my welcome here.” He tips his head towards Takeshi; when he looks up it comes through his lashes, angled to shadow heavy over the gaze he knows to be as vivid and striking as a blow. “Think you could point me towards the hotel district?”

Takeshi’s gaze flickers, his lashes fluttering hard. Hayato watches his throat work on a swallow before he speaks in a measure of calm. “Sure,” he says, in a closer match to casual than Hayato expected to find in him. “It’s just a few blocks away from here, actually.”

“Is that so,” Hayato says without looking away. “Any chance of you playing tour guide to get me there?”

Takeshi breathes out with some force. “Oh,” he says. “Yes.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “What about after we get there?”

“Well,” Hayato says. “We’ll just have to see how it goes, won’t we?” And he lifts his cup to his mouth to down what remains in a long swallow of burning heat. There’s a lot left in the cup, but he doesn’t look away from Takeshi’s gaze, and from the way the other’s eyes go dark and heavy against his, Hayato is sure they understand each other perfectly well.


	2. Conclude

Hayato pays for the room almost without speaking, with only the briefest exchange with Takeshi over his shoulder regarding who will be covering the cost. In the end Takeshi subsides to linger with anxious enthusiasm while Hayato has a terse conversation with the front desk to obtain a key for a private room. He doesn’t need to gesture Takeshi to follow him; the other is crowding at Hayato’s heels as they go down the hallway to the room numbered on the key in Hayato’s hand, so close that the shadows cast by the lighting in the hallway blend the two of them into a single shape. Hayato unlocks the door and pushes to step into the room, and as soon as Takeshi steps past the entryway he’s turning in to face him, crowding the other back against the door and reaching for dark hair to pull soft-parted lips down against his own. Takeshi surrenders his advantage of height without the smallest trace of protest, capitulating to curve in towards Hayato as his hands come up to ghost against Hayato’s hips, and Hayato presses his advantage immediately to claim the heat of the other’s mouth with his tongue as well. Takeshi gives that up readily too, parting his lips to let Hayato taste against his tongue and back into the depths of his mouth, and Hayato growls satisfaction and takes everything that Takeshi is so ready to give up.

Takeshi doesn’t protest any part of Hayato’s treatment of him. His mouth is soft under Hayato’s, lips parted to welcome the urge of Hayato’s tongue and the catch of his teeth alike; once his hands are settled at the other’s hips they remain there, as if he’s content to let Hayato steer them into the inevitable conclusion of their surroundings. It falls to Hayato to slide a hand down to the front of Takeshi’s shirt so he can slip the buttons free from their clasps and tug the silk-soft fabric out of the other’s slacks, and Takeshi just curves in the closer, giving up more of himself for Hayato’s mouth in answer to the fingers unfastening his clothes and reaching in for bare skin. He’s not wearing an undershirt, Hayato finds quickly; there’s just suntanned skin beneath the soft of his unbuttoned shirt, his chest as lean with muscle as it appeared to be even while they were sitting over the restaurant counter. Hayato draws back from the persuasion of Takeshi’s mouth for a minute, just so he can turn his attention to the play of shadows over the other’s bare skin as he slides his hands across Takeshi’s chest and along the narrow line of his waist, and Takeshi falls back against the door behind him, breathing hot enough that Hayato can see the shift of it across his chest.

“What do you want to do?” Takeshi asks. His eyes are heavy-lidded when Hayato looks up at him, the dark of his lashes shadowing his gaze into something far more sultry than what Hayato’s minimal efforts have yet deserved. His lips are soft, still parted as if in expectation of the return of Hayato’s mouth against them; when his focus slips it dips to the front of Hayato’s own slacks, where the fabric is straining over his arousal. “How do you want me?”

Hayato can think of several options, right off the bat. There’s the bed behind them, the sheets pulled to the illusion of decency as ready to be disheveled as Takeshi in front of him. Around the corner there’s an overlarge bath, promising a more sedate, languid satisfaction, if Hayato wants to take advantage of it. He’s sure he can find all manner of accessories in the drawers alongside the bed, too, if he wants to make use of those on either or both of them together; but right now Hayato doesn’t want to bother with any of the trappings around them, doesn’t want to take the time to fill the bath or select from the variety of options they’ve rented for the next few hours. All he really wants is a little privacy, space to make the best use of the handsome figure before him, and with the door shut and Takeshi leaning back against it Hayato has everything he needs.

Hayato winds his fingers into Takeshi’s hair, tightening his grip so his hold is certain in spite of the short of the strands. “Down,” he says, and pulls to add suggestion to the demand. “On your knees.” Takeshi’s lashes dip, his lips part, and he folds as if his body is obeying Hayato’s control instead of his own, as if he has just been waiting to hear what Hayato asks of him. It’s a graceful motion, elegant with the kind of carelessness that comes from someone who has always been comfortable in his own body; Hayato wonders distantly if Takeshi even realizes how he looks as he drops to kneel at the hotel room floor, with his shirt hanging loose around his shoulders and his hands still bracing at Hayato’s hips. Hayato keeps his hold in Takeshi’s hair, although he shifts his grip to better accommodate the change in their positions as he reaches with his other hand to unfasten the front of his slacks so he can free himself from their confinement.

Takeshi’s gaze dips to track the motion, his focus following the work of Hayato’s fingers and the push of his thumb, and Hayato watches him, watches the flutter of Takeshi’s lashes as Hayato’s slacks come undone and the color rising pink under his tan cheeks as Hayato slides himself free of his clothing. Takeshi’s mouth softens, his kiss-damp lips parting in anticipation even as Hayato is sliding his grip down to brace at the base of his cock, and when Hayato rocks his hips forward Takeshi doesn’t need any instruction at all. He opens his mouth, and shuts his eyes, and when Hayato comes forward to slide his cock into Takeshi’s mouth Takeshi accepts it like an offering. Hayato pushes deeper, working himself forward until he’s filled the whole of the other’s mouth, until Takeshi’s expression is cast into the shadow of his body leaning over the other, and it’s only then that he draws back to watch himself slide free of Takeshi’s lips before taking another thrust.

Takeshi is good at this. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t try to take the lead on the rhythm Hayato is setting with the motion of his hips and the grip of his hand at Takeshi’s hair. He lets his mouth go soft for the press of Hayato’s cock, his lips and tongue offering gentle friction for Hayato’s indulgence, and when Hayato pulls to tip his head farther back Takeshi gives way immediately, angling his chin up so Hayato can see the ease in the other’s face, the expression of bliss weighting his lashes and glowing across his cheeks. He looks perfectly content, as if all his cheerful conversation at the bar was in sole pursuit of this result, of Hayato fucking his mouth with the solid heat of his cock. The thought swells heat through Hayato’s length, aching the solid force of want under his bracing fingers, and when he thrusts forward again it’s to push deeper, to fill Takeshi’s mouth with the whole length of his cock at once. Takeshi takes it without protest, as gracefully as he folded to the floor, his hands sliding around to gain better purchase against the flex of Hayato’s back as the other rocks forward into his mouth. Hayato leans forward, leaning into the grip he has at Takeshi’s hair as he watches his cock sliding past the other’s lips, watches Takeshi accept everything Hayato gives him with evident appreciation, until the strain building along his spine grows too keen, until arousal is too sharply insistent for him to stand. He tightens his grip around the base of his cock, clenching tight as if to restrain himself by force before he fists at Takeshi’s hair to hold him steady as he pulls back and out of the pressing heat of Takeshi’s mouth around him.

Hayato feels the loss immediately, aching frustration along his spine at this abrupt cessation of sensation, but it’s Takeshi who whimpers and opens his eyes to look up at Hayato with dizzy confusion. “What--?”

“Get up,” Hayato says, and lets himself go so he can reach for Takeshi’s shirt and urge him back to his feet again. Takeshi stands obediently enough, albeit a little less gracefully than he folded to his knees the first time, but his gold-hazel eyes are still dazed with confusion, and if he’s not putting voice to his question the part of his lips makes it clear enough. Hayato lets his hold on Takeshi’s hair go and pushes at his shoulder to urge him back against the support of the door instead. “Take your pants off, Takeshi.”

“Oh,” Takeshi breathes, and drops his hands from Hayato’s hips to unfasten the clasp of his belt around his narrow hips. “Do you want…?”

“If you’re fast enough about it,” Hayato says, and leaves Takeshi to strip his pants off while he turns to the room to find the supplies he knows are here. There’s a bowl of condoms on the table closest to the door, and a packet of lube in the drawer beneath; Hayato takes both, pocketing the condom and tearing open the lube so he can smear it across his fingers as he comes back to where Takeshi is kicking his shoes and slacks to a heap at the corner of the room. He hasn’t bothered to shrug out of his unbuttoned shirt and Hayato doesn’t ask him to; he’s stepping in instead, close enough to urge Takeshi back against the door behind him, and Takeshi is reaching to brace a hand at Hayato’s shoulder and duck his head to breathe hard against the other’s hair as Hayato reaches between his thighs.

Takeshi is hard without any persuasion beyond Hayato fucking his mouth, his cock standing out stiff from his hips, but Hayato only looks down so he can reach past the dark curls around the base of the other’s shaft and the weight of his balls to fit slick fingers in to the space between the other’s thighs. Takeshi shifts his weight to the side as Hayato’s fingers slide over him, easing his balance so he can allow the other greater access, and Hayato finds his entrance at once, pressing over him with a pair of fingers before angling one to stroke up and into him without ceremony. Takeshi’s head goes back, his throat opens on a groan as Hayato fingers him open, but Hayato keeps his head down instead of looking up to see the expression on the other’s face. Takeshi opens easy, relaxing into the other’s demand as quickly as Hayato makes it, until Hayato is working two fingers into him instead of one, until he can feel the tremor of sensation working in Takeshi’s thighs angled wide around the reach of his arm. Hayato works up into him, sliding his fingers apart and feeling the way Takeshi gives way for him, feeling the heat of the other’s breathing ruffling into his hair, until care gives way to impatience and he slides his fingers free with force enough that Takeshi shudders with the absence.

Hayato doesn’t give voice to more instruction. He reaches into his pocket for the condom, bracing the packet between his teeth as he unfastens the belt and buckle of his unzipped slacks so he can shove them down and gain greater access to the aching heat of his cock. The packet gives way to his pull and he drops the foil to the floor as he rolls the condom down over his shaft with efficient haste; in front of him Takeshi is leaning back against the door, breathing hard as he watches Hayato ready himself. Hayato keeps his gaze down, focused on the work of his hands as he gets the condom on, and when he reaches out for the angle of Takeshi’s knee it’s without looking up either. Takeshi lets Hayato lift his leg off the floor, submitting to this force back against the door with more of that graceful surrender, and when Hayato steps in to fit himself between Takeshi’s legs Takeshi braces an arm around his shoulders and leans in to steady himself at Hayato’s chest. Hayato tightens his hold on Takeshi’s knee, leans in to fix his balance steady over his feet, and when his hips rock forward his cock slides up and into the give of the other’s body in a single smooth stroke.

Takeshi makes a desperate sound, something hot and helpless in his throat as his head comes forward to press hard against Hayato’s shoulder, but Hayato’s groaning himself, huffing relief so hot it sounds almost like a growl in his chest as he sinks himself into Takeshi’s willing body. The friction is brighter than it was in Takeshi’s mouth, the pressure keener and heat warmer; Hayato can feel Takeshi tighten around him as he thrusts into him, can feel the other’s reaction persuading him deeper. He lets Takeshi’s leg go so he can grab for his hip instead, can brace Takeshi against the door as he hitches himself farther into the other’s body, and Takeshi loops his knee around Hayato’s hip and slides his other arm around Hayato’s shoulders to clutch tight to the support of the other. His face is pressing to Hayato’s shoulder, his breathing panting hard over the other’s shirt, and Hayato rocks back to take him again, to force another moan of heat from the other’s lips as Hayato brings them together.

“Fuck,” Hayato growls, the closest thing to a compliment he’s going to allow at the moment, and he fixes his hold against Takeshi’s hip so he can find a rhythm for himself moving into the other. Takeshi welcomes it, giving way to Hayato as easily as Hayato urges up into him, and Hayato doesn’t protest when Takeshi’s fingers slide up to curl into his hair and cradle the back of his head. Takeshi is gasping, his breathing spilling into throaty want with each thrust Hayato takes into him, and he’s hard against Hayato’s stomach, his cock pressing against the front of Hayato’s shirt with each forward stroke. Hayato slides his foot a little wider, growling in the back of his throat as he braces himself enough to free his hand, and when he reaches down between them to close his fingers around Takeshi the other shudders with the contact, his leg around Hayato’s hip flexing at the same time he tightens breathless pressure around Hayato’s cock inside him. The force makes Hayato groan incoherent with sensation, and when he moves again it’s his grip stroking over Takeshi as much as his hips thrusting up into him. Takeshi whimpers at his shoulder, sounding like he’s losing his breath, like he can’t recall the shape of words, and Hayato keeps moving without stopping, without slowing, even as Takeshi trembles helplessly where Hayato has him pinned back against the support behind him. The door is shifting against its frame, rattling with each thrust Hayato takes, and he’s sure anyone in the hallway outside will be able to hear the helpless moaning noises in Takeshi’s throat, but he’s not about to stop, and Takeshi’s arms are flexing tighter around his shoulders.

“Oh,” Takeshi’s gasping, that one sound the only thing it seems he can lay claim to. “_Oh_.” His leg is tight around Hayato’s hip, his fingers twisting to a fist on Hayato’s silver hair; Takeshi’s cock is hot under Hayato’s working grip, so hard Hayato imagines he can feel the beat of the other’s pulse thrumming under his hold. He keeps stroking, focusing on the pull of his hand while instinct guides the force of his hips, and against his shoulder:

“Oh,” Takeshi groans, “_Hayato_” as he spends himself all across the work of Hayato’s grip around him, gasping his pleasure to the line of the other’s shoulder. Hayato hisses rough in the back of his throat, but he keeps stroking until Takeshi’s tension is spilled to trembling relief, until the other has turned his head in to pant against the curve of Hayato’s throat instead of into the line of his jacket. It’s only then that Hayato frees his hand to reach for Takeshi’s other hip and bracket the other against the door at his back so he can growl at him.

“You  _ idiot_,” he says. “What’s the point of this whole game if you’re just going to forget it as soon as you’re coming?”

“What?” Takeshi sounds hazy, lost in his own pleasure the way he always does just after coming; when he lifts his head his gaze is unfocused, even when it meets Hayato’s judgmental frown. “I didn’t forget.”

“You did,” Hayato says, and thrusts forward hard to punctuate. “I never introduced myself to you.”

Takeshi blinks. “You didn’t?”

“No,” Hayato says. “You never asked.” He draws back to rock into a long, deep thrust; the heat of it drags his next words to roughness in his throat. “You were ready to take my cock without even bothering to find out my name first, Takeshi.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums. “Well, that’s because it’s you.” He strokes his fingers through Hayato’s hair and gives him such a soft smile even Hayato’s irritation can’t get traction on it. “And I  _ do _ know your name, anyway.”

“That’s not the  _ point_,” Hayato reminds him. “It was  _ your _ idea to pretend to be strangers having a one-night stand.”

Takeshi smiles. “It is kinda fun,” he admits, and leans in to brush his mouth against the corner of Hayato’s. “Don’t you think so, Hayato?”

“It  _ was_,” Hayato growls. “We’re not really pretending to anymore. I haven’t even come yet.”

“Aww,” Takeshi says, and tightens his leg around Hayato’s hip. “I really want you to, though.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. “You and me both.” He presses himself closer between Takeshi’s thighs, pushing at the other’s hips to inch him a little farther up the support at his back. “Stop talking and let me finish.” Takeshi laughs, the sound warm and purring in the back of his throat, and Hayato ducks his head in against Takeshi’s shoulder so he can deny the smile tugging itself free of his mouth and focus instead on the angle of Takeshi’s thighs open around his hips, the sound of Takeshi’s pleasure-ragged breathing against his hair, the deep satisfaction rising up his spine from the instinctive rhythm of his hips moving to thrust up into the grip of Takeshi’s body. Takeshi’s arms slide closer around Hayato’s shoulders as he leans forward, the strain of arousal melting into appreciative langor as he thrums with aftershocks of heat, and Hayato turns his head to breathe in against the sunkissed dark of Takeshi’s neck as his thoughts blur out-of-focus. He forgets to be irritated, forgets to be amused, forgets even the excitingly novel setting in which they are framed: there is just the heat forming in him, aching in his shoulders and trembling in his thighs, and Takeshi, winding closer against him with every panting breath he takes in time with Hayato’s own gasping inhales.

Hayato comes at once, suddenly and as brilliant as an explosion breaking free behind the dark of his shut eyes. His hips jerk forward, forced into motion by the immediate intensity of the sensation, and Takeshi gasps, clutching tighter to his hold on Hayato as Hayato gives up his coherency for the incandescence of sudden, overwhelming pleasure. Hayato thrusts forward, pressing himself far into Takeshi’s surrender, urged on by the soft note of pleasure in Takeshi’s throat; and then the tension spends itself, and he goes heavy, all the strength in his body giving way to sag the both of them against the support of the door at Takeshi’s back. Takeshi takes a breath, soft and warm with surprise, and Hayato lets his head fall forward to press his forehead to the line of the other’s shoulder before him. Takeshi’s fingers slide up into his hair, smoothing through the strands to trail unthinking affection through the silver locks, and Hayato turns his head to breathe against Takeshi’s neck as he gives himself up to the other’s hold. They are both quiet for a minute except for the sound of their too-fast breathing; then Hayato presses his lips together and draws a breath so he can sigh it into a show of exasperation.

“Well,” he says. “You couldn’t even remember your role long enough for me to get you to the bed, huh?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, sounding not at all apologetic. “Yeah.” He turns his head in to lean against Hayato’s. “We could always try again.”

Hayato snorts. “I don’t think you’d be any better at it,” he says, and lifts his head so he can meet Takeshi’s melting gold gaze. “You’re too much of a sap, Takeshi.”

Takeshi smiles at him. “Yeah,” he admits. “I guess I just like you too much.”

“Guess so,” Hayato says, aiming for something like resignation and landing closer to amusement. “I suppose I’ll just have to let you go back to what you’re good at.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says at once, and lifts his head to bump his nose against Hayato’s. “Is that being your husband?”

“I was going to say being an idiot in love,” Hayato tells him. “But yeah, that too.” Takeshi laughs and Hayato doesn’t try to fight back the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. He catches his hand at the back of Takeshi’s head, tightening his fingers so he can brace the other steady. “Hold still and let me kiss you, Takeshi.” Takeshi smiles and dips his dark lashes, and Hayato leans in to close the minimal gap between them. Takeshi doesn’t hold still at all -- his fingers are sliding into Hayato’s hair, and when Hayato tips his head Takeshi is already coming in to meet him -- but Hayato doesn’t really care, and if Takeshi doesn’t know that, the press of his mouth to the other’s distracts them both enough that the details don’t matter anyway.


End file.
